


A Question of Discretion

by Eglantine



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Getting to know you, Joly cameo, precanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 17:58:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11086929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglantine/pseuds/Eglantine
Summary: Combeferre attempts to attend his first political meeting without attracting notice, but runs into an obstacle.





	A Question of Discretion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [C-chan (1001paperboxes)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001paperboxes/gifts).



No one who knew Combeferre later was surprised to learn that his entrance into the world of the political underground was careful and quiet, his transition from theoretical understanding to practical action slow, but deliberate. It was simply his nature, especially when he was younger, to err on the side of circumspection.

Well, that-- and the fact that he was in medical school, and unlike the law students (who seemed to Combeferre mostly to be paying for the privilege of moving to Paris), he actually had to study and attend his lectures. But Combeferre had never been satisfied by intense focus on a single topic, and it was inevitable that his mind eventually began to wander beyond the lecture hall, to drift from merely the study of how the body worked, to the study of how those bodies lived.

“Ah, well!” said his classmate Joly, when one afternoon, after muddling through the misdirections of Combeferre’s father’s service in Napoleon’s scientific corps and the lock of hair Joly’s grandmother kept as a relic and swore was Louis XVI’s, they obliquely worked themselves around to their own political views. “I have some friends who would be very glad to speak to you on those subjects-- indeed, the trick is getting them to stop. Would you like to meet them?”

“I would be very glad to,” Combeferre said. “And very grateful to have you speak for me. I can assure you I will prove worthy of the trust.”

“I have no doubt of that!” Joly laughed. “But Bahorel’s an old hand at this-- that’s his name, my friend-- well, my friend’s friend-- anyway--” Joly shook his head and smiled bashfully. “I’ll be eager to be able to speak with you a little more freely. You’re quite right, of course. Take some care when-- that is to say, once they are all gathered, things do get spoken quite... plainly-- but of course, I needn’t say such things to you. You aren’t reckless.”

“I try not to be,” Combeferre said.

*

Thus, Combeferre set out one day after his lecture to meet Joly and his political friends at a cafe on the Place Saint-Michel. It was a fine spring afternoon, and Combeferre had time to spare, so he took the long way round, pausing at a bookseller’s (though he knew that raised the distinct danger of making himself late) to check on the newest arrivals.

As he was bent over a very handsomely illustrated book about flowers, a vaguely familiar voice called out his name. He turned to see two students, one he knew, and one he did not. The one he knew-- de Courfeyrac-- or no, just Courfeyrac-- was waving him over, and though he knew he didn’t have much time before he started making his way to the Place Saint-Michel, it seemed too rude to ignore him. So Combeferre left the book and made his way over.

He did not know Courfeyrac well. They both hailed from near Toulouse, and had been asked so often by native Parisians who assumed that everyone from the provinces must know each other whether they did in fact know each other that they were both extremely reluctant to confess that in fact, they did. Not _everyone_ from Toulouse was acquainted, but their families were, though not closely. But near enough that when Courfeyrac came to Paris about two years after Combeferre, they were both instructed to find one another, which they had dutifully done.

They were a truly striking pair, Courfeyrac and his friend. If one were to parcel out Courfeyrac in parts, as Combeferre had sometimes overheard his sisters do, he might not necessarily be deemed particularly handsome. There was nothing much to note about his hazelish eyes and rather snubbed nose. But he dressed so well, and carried himself so confidently-- and more than either of these, his features were animated by such warmth and energy, it was impossible not to find him attractive, at least in some sense of the word.

As for his friend-- Combeferre thought at once that he had to be a poet, or perhaps a painter or even an actor. He couldn’t imagine anyone else going about their daily life looking like they’d stepped out of a Renaissance painting and into a pale blue waistcoat.

“How do you do?” Courfeyrac said brightly. “I don’t suppose you know Enjolras?”

“I’m afraid not,” Combeferre said. (If Courfeyrac wasn’t going to pun on the _ange_ sound in the blond fellow’s name, then Combeferre, a stranger, certainly couldn’t.) So he just offered a bow. “I’m very pleased to meet you. I’m Combeferre.”

“Enjolras,” he said, and Courfeyrac added, “A fellow law student! I just ran into him here on the street as well. A day of happy coincidences, it seems. But don’t let us keep you from your books.”

“Not at all,” Combeferre said quickly. “In fact, I’m glad you called to me-- I was liable to lose track of the time entirely in there.”

“Well then, I won’t pull you from one delay to another!” Courfeyrac laughed. “Unless you’re heading our way?”

Courfeyrac gestured down the street-- towards, Combeferre realized with some regret, Place Saint-Michel.

“Yes,” he said, seeing no plausible escape; he didn’t have time to go hide in the bookshop until they left. Well, no matter. It would be simple enough to part with them without inviting them in when they arrived at the cafe. “I’ll walk with you.”

And so he fell into step beside them.

“Enjolras and I met in a lecture, though he’s a year ahead of me,” Courfeyrac said, plainly recognizing that he was flanked by two men who did not count smalltalk as a strong suit. “Whereas Combeferre and I were compelled to meet on the insistence of a complicated network of aunt’s friend’s husband’s cousins who all passed along the command that we each look up their relation in Paris.”

Combeferre couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, something like that. I hope you have not found the acquaintance too burdensome.”

“Not at all!” Courfeyrac replied. “It makes people think I must be a very serious, dedicated student indeed, to have a friend studying medicine.”

They were fast approaching the Place Saint-Michel.

“Well,” Combeferre said, in what he had always assumed to be the universal tone of _I will be taking my leave now, goodbye._ But apparently it wasn’t: as he began to veer off towards the cafe, Courfeyrac and Enjolras veered with him. They all slowed, then came to a stop on the corner. It was plain that everyone recognized this as the moment whereupon they were to part ways, but no one seemed sure how to do it.

“Well,” Combeferre said again, hopefully. It didn’t work the second time, either.

“I’m thinking of going to the theatre tomorrow,” Courfeyrac said cheerfully. “Would either of you like to come?”

“Oh-- yes, alright,” Combeferre said, taken aback. “I’ve been meaning to go more.”

“Have you? I didn’t take you for a theatergoer,” Courfeyrac said. “What do you like?”

“I couldn’t really say,” Combeferre replied. “I’ve found something interesting in everything I’ve seen.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “How egalitarian of you! Very admirable.”

“Well, you know,” Combeferre said, but could not decide where the sentence was going, and so let it fade out. A silence fell. Combeferre was beginning to feel irritated. Why wouldn’t they go? He had a horrible suspicion that if he attempted to excuse himself, they would only follow, and what then? Though Courfeyrac had tossed off his familial particle, Combeferre had no idea if that was out of some kind of conviction, or just to irritate his father. And of Enjolras he knew nothing at all, save that his clothes, plain though they were, made his wealth obvious.

“Your family are well, I hope?” Combeferre said, growing slightly desperate. Maybe he would just have to give up, send his apologies to Joly later.

“Yes, very well,” Courfeyrac said. “And yours?”

“Oh, yes, all well.”

Another silence.

This time, Enjolras broke it. Combeferre realized it was the first time he had spoken since introducing himself.

“If you will excuse me,” Enjolras said. “This is my destination.”

And he pointed to the cafe.

“What?” Combeferre said. And Courfeyrac said, “What? Is it?”

“Why should that be surprising?” Enjolras asked, a sudden slight wariness in his tone.

“Well, that’s-- that’s where I’m going, too,” Courfeyrac said. And then he laughed. “It’s as I said, I suppose! Happy coincidences! Combeferre, if you’ll--”

“It is my destination as well,” Combeferre cut in.

Courfeyrac, smiling still, tilted his head curiously. “And who are you to meet, if I may ask?”

“A classmate of mine, Jean-Benoit Joly.”

“And I, a classmate of ours,” Enjolras replied. “Lesgle-- you know him, I believe.”

Courfeyrac’s smile melted into a laugh. “Yes, I do! And do you know that those two are the very closest of companions? I believe they share everything-- including most opinions.”

Combeferre suddenly felt very foolish indeed.

But it was impossible to grow too embarrassed or sullen in the face of Courfeyrac’s beaming good cheer as he slung his arm, laughing, over Combeferre and Enjolras’s shoulders.

“Then let’s go in. We’ve made ourselves late.”

And so they went in, all three together.


End file.
